


passing of the torch

by lollypoopdeck



Category: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Imaginary Friends, Loss of Parent(s), Pain, all i know is pain, not too much comforting going on today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 14:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollypoopdeck/pseuds/lollypoopdeck
Summary: Herriman told her it was time. She didn’t ask what he meant. She just got up and followed him out the door.





	passing of the torch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends.
> 
> A quick note if you’re coming over from Destiny and wondering why I’m posting _this_ instead of, ahem, _you know what_: please rest easy in knowing you have not one, but TWO (2) fics heading your way. The one as you know will follow Forsaken, and the other is a surprise. I know it’s taking while but I’m doing double duty in the hopes of getting them out together and avoiding another five month wait. I'm thinking they'll be done after Shadowkeep's release. Bear with me, loves.
> 
> So. I began re-binging Foster’s on hulu weeks ago and had bad nostalgia, then this idea hit me at 3am one night and I didn’t finish it until 6. It was that powerful. I just touched up on some grammar today, and felt like sharing it. *hides*
> 
> I own squat. But I am responsible for the origin of your misery…

She’s burned out from another _very_ long 9 to 5, lounging in her chair and watching the CBS at 6 anchor gush over yet another kid using their birthday money to do what the _government_ should be doing, when Herriman knocks on the door.

All he says is that “it’s time.” She doesn’t ask what he means. She just gets up and follows him out the door.

The first thing she does is call Mac and pray to whatever cosmic powers that be that he can drive himself and the rest of the guys over from MSU within 30 minutes. She doesn’t tell him why. He says he can be there in 45, but that’s good enough.

She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until Herriman opens the door, and motions for her to enter the room first. She does not like what she finds.

The nurse is speaking softly when she enters, softly and _forlornly_ to her grandmother, patting her hand and swiping the wet hair out her face. He finally looks to them when Herriman clears his throat. He seems spooked. But that’s not really her concern, right now.

“Excuse me a moment, miss,” the nurse says to Madame Foster, and hurries over to them. “I’m sorry,” he says, and her fists ball tight. “I was about to call you, I—”

“That’s quite alright, Jullian,” Herriman interrupts softly, “there was no fault on your part. We know the time is now. If you would give Miss Frances a moment with the Lady.”

“Of course, sir.”

The nurse exits quietly, and it’s only when the door clicks shut that her grandmother finally realizes somebody else is in the room. She lays motionless on the bed, head glued to the pillow. She looks awful, but better than she did yesterday. If _that_ even means anything_, _now. Her eyes are quite small without her glasses, almost beady, and she peers at them through the dim light. Frankie fights against the burn threatening to choke her, but she cannot move.

“… Frankie?” Grandma croaks, and what’s left of her resolve breaks.

Frances crosses the room in four quick strides and collapses on the bed in a mess of tears. She buries her face in the covers over her grandmother’s legs and _clings_ to her. She can feel small, light fingertips coursing through her red hair, and she hears the same voice that sang her to sleep as a girl, “shh, shh… it’s alright, Frances,” and though it’s meant to be soothing, Frankie cannot help but cough up a powerful sob.

This was the second time in three years that she’s said her name. The dementia had progressed rapidly; she was forgetting her most recent meal, Frankie’s name and even her own, then that grew into short term loss during conversations and rights and lefts, and on top of that she was _constantly _angry—and once the doctors discovered deterioration in her brain cells, the diagnosis changed to Alzheimer’s.

Grandma has not been able to recognize her. The last time she said her name with any kind of certainty was fourteen months ago, and Frankie shakes harder at the realization that she’s been keeping count; every time she would look and find emptiness in that once loving gaze, the hurt that came at the coldness with which her grandma spoke to her, and the number of days her maniacal laughter didn’t ring through the halls.

Frances lays across her grandmother’s lap, and she cries. She cries for what feels like an eternity, until she hears footsteps, and a warm, deep voice.

“Frankie?”

She lifts her head and looks through tears and hair. Mac is standing even next to Herriman, a slightly taller Bloo by his side. The imaginary actually looks solemn for once in his existence. Mac, despite his facial hair, seems more or less like a little boy. His eyes are wide and shiny, frightened, not at _all_ the picture of a grown man, a _college freshman_—and somewhere in the deep caverns of her heart, Frankie regrets calling him all the way out here. In her selfishness she hadn’t considered his studies, though she knows how important psychology is to him.

Through the door she can see the others standing by, Ed, Walt, and Coco as promised. An invisible pressure lifts.

Mac stands there, though he clearly wants to approach, but Grandma doesn’t know him, so he remains in the doorway. Then she speaks, as though remembering something long left dormant. “Herriman.”

Frankie’s heart constricts. “Madame,” the rabbit responds, dutifully, patiently, and the message is clear. Grandma needs time with him, now.

Frankie doesn’t want to leave her yet, she can’t, but she must, and she must be taking too long to get up because she feels a fingerless hand touch her back, and it’s Bloo helping her up off the bed and out of the room.

Before she leaves, she touches her fingers to Herriman's forearm, and the rabbit looks at her appendages as though it were the most normal thing for them to be there. She says nothing, simply conveys the message with her eyes, and that is enough. They’ve been at odds, she and the butler, but Frankie respects him.

For Grandma has only ever said her name twice in the last few years, but she has never forgotten Herriman.

xXx

“So it just… got worse? That quickly?”

“Yeah,” she sniffs. “We didn’t… we only found out two hours ago.”

Mac sits with her in the hall, Mac and Bloo and the others, trying to make sense of the sudden decline.

He feels bad, Frankie knows. She can tell by the stiff set of his slim shoulders and the clench of his jaw that he regrets moving so far away, regrets that his visits aren’t nearly as frequent as they were ten years ago. The others feel bad too, because they _lived_ here before Mac adopted them all and took them away to school. The boy turned man is angry, because Madame Foster was as much his second mother as hers.

“I should’ve moved back,” he growls, “I… I should’ve been here to take care of you—_both _of you…”

And it’s here that Frankie realizes she’s a mess; her hair is filthy and in need of brushing, there’s days old mascara running down her cheeks, she’s worn the same blue shirt with that mustard stain from last month's food fight for the last three nights, she hasn’t really slept at all in weeks, and between her full time job and taking care of Grandma and the house…

She’s a mess, but Frankie stops him, because she does not like where this is going. Mac!” she cuts in, grabbing his chin to force him to listen. “Mac, stop. There was nothing… nothing you could have done.” She works to speak around tears, because even under her 24/7 care, her constant vigilance, she was powerless to stop this. “This was nobody’s fault. Please… _please_, don’t blame yourself.”

Frankie wipes the trailing wetness from his cheek with a thumb, smiling sadly. “She loves us. All of us,” and she looks around to her oldest friends. “Even though she may not remember that, we need to.”

Coco caws sadly, and Ed pats her in comfort. Wilt smiles at Frankie, bits of tearful and grateful. “She’s right, guys,” he says. “Madame Foster gave us a home when we lost ours. Her home. Right now we’re sad, but as long as we remember the good days, we’ll be okay.”

“Si, Wilt,” Eduardo nods, and rubs his belly. “Me will always remember Senorita Foster’s cookies!”

“Coco!”

Mac rubs his nose, then chuckles. “I’ll always remember when she kicked me off the bowling team.”

“You deserved it, y'know.”

“Shut up, Bloo.”

The imaginary's arms are folded stiffly, and he leans against the railing, appearing nonchalant. “Eh. You did, but who cares.” No one says anything for a long while. They’re all staring at Bloo.

Frankie is, for the first time, taken aback. There hasn’t been a single cocky comment or insensitive joke since he arrived. She hasn’t seen Bloo in months, but even then he was the same old Bloo from Mac’s childhood; conceited, arrogant and inconsiderate. Frankie can’t tell if the imaginary's actually matured in that short time, or if he realizes the gravity of this situation.

But it all comes back to maturity, she supposes.

Bloo's sigh pulls her from her thoughts. “Yeah, I’ll miss her too. Mean old lady.”

Mac sputters. “Bloo!”

“It’s okay, Mac,” Frankie laughs, because it is. It’s okay for a multitude of reasons.

The door opens, and Herriman’s head pokes out. “Miss Frances, Masters.”

This time they all go inside, and Frankie chokes back a sob. Grandma now looks the very definition of sickly. In those few short minutes, she’s already regressed, and fatally. Frankie runs to her side and holds her hand.

They stay with her until she goes.

xXx

That evening, they bury her, in the rain.

The last of her surviving family. Frankie doesn’t know what to do.

There is no service, no grand speech or moving melody. Just a gathering of friends turned family, and the few imaginaries who hadn’t yet moved out that were old enough to remember her.

She stares blankly at the small bush of hydrangeas at her feet, tears rolling down her face. She stays long after the others leave, long after the lights on the house turn on, and Mac, the gang and Herriman are the only ones left.

_I miss you._

Frankie just doesn’t have the strength to leave. She hears more than feels Herriman place a hand on the one that holds her umbrella, ushering her inside. She allows him to guide her, because if she doesn’t, she will never leave.

xXx

Dawn has barely struck when she returns to the grave. Frankie never slept, and she’s the only one awake at this hour. Mac and the others stayed the night, but they’ll be leaving this afternoon. The rain is still pouring, hasn’t stopped since it started yesterday, but Frankie stands for thirty minutes without an umbrella. From the back porch, she can feel eyes, watchful and intentional, trained on her back. If this had happened ten years ago, at a time when she challenged every little thing he did, she would be absolutely furious.

After a while the girl turned woman hears familiar, heavy footfalls. But she doesn’t quite know if a hop counts as a step.

She sighs as an umbrella eclipses her soaking wet form, speaks without looking. “How much longer, now?”

Herriman is silent, allowing the pattern of rain to be his response. They’ve talked about this only once, of what happens to an imaginary friend when their creator dies, but she has not forgotten. Frankie will never forget the mornings she has woken to, finding that one less soul occupied the house.

The rain pours, pounding on their umbrella, and the rabbit pushes his monocle further up his face. “My Lady left me with a task,” he rumbles eventually, dutifully, “and it is not one I take lightly.”

xXx

_“Madame… is her mother not—”_

_“Her mother is not _fit_ to raise this child, Herriman. And I’ll not see her bouncing around foster homes.”_

_Herriman tries not to linger on the irony of this very building being a _Foster_ household. “But Madame—”_

_“Object all you want, but I am raising this child. I’ve already done so once, and I will do it again.”_

xXx

She stares at him. Like, really stares at him, for what feels like a lifetime. Beads of water from rain and the surrounding fog gather thicker on her skin, but Frankie knows the hotness that rolls down her face is not rain. “I-I…” she stutters, shocked, frozen, angry for a million reasons and also _scared_, because _how _is this possible? Herriman was_ never _her—

“I don’t _want_ to be Madame Foster!” she whispers under the rain, and she _hates_ that it sounds like a plea, a desperate plea for Herriman to take back his promise, even though she knows he won’t.

Herriman doesn’t look to her. His nose twitches, making his whiskers rustle. “You won’t have to be anything you don’t want to be, my dear.” The softness of the words, and the paternal warmness with which he said them, racks a sigh through Frankie’s body. “All that matters is that I be for you what you require.”

That’s a wonderful sentiment, but Frankie is no less _confused_. “Herriman—why… _how…?” _because she has never heard of an imaginary _transferring owners_, and even if that is the case, their history is not all kisses and cuddles. She has been in his crosshairs more than once; from loosing dogs to outright stealing his job, and he in turn deliberately made her life difficult; unloading on her too many household tasks, none of which could be completed in any timely manner by one person alone.

Vaguely, she wonders, if in the last moments of her life, Grandma asked Herriman to stay with her. If _that_ was the reason she said his name like that, like she had remembered something she needed to do.

The rabbit sighs. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Frances, and the answer is no. That was a conversation I am never meant to divulge.” Then he finally, _finally _turns his body to face her. “The promise I made was not to the Lady, but to a young girl, some thirty years ago… by order of your grandmother.”

Frankie blinks, shakes her head, squeezes her eyes shut; she does _anything _to drown out the sobs that are trying to tear their way out of her throat.

She feels fur under her chin, on her cheeks. Her eyes flutter open, and she finds two bright, timeless eyes gazing into her own. The kindness there, the security and warmth… reminds her of a place in time where that was all she knew. Frankie sees comfort. She remembers home.

She falls into Herriman before she can stop herself, and the butler gathers her against himself with one arm, determined not to let her go.

He will never let her go.

xXx

_Herriman walks the dark halls of the Foster Manor with angry, calculated flaps of his feet. He will admit his Lady was a force to he reckoned with, whenever she was so inclined. He cannot quite recall the last time he was so maddened by her orders._

_“Imaginary pets… hmph! The nerve of that woman…” he mutters to himself repeatedly, halfway trying to talk himself out of doing what he’d already sworn to do… but a gentleman never goes back on his word, and so Herriman continues his march._

_He reaches the child’s room, and all thoughts of anger vanish. Herriman enters with caution and care, making sure not to wake the girl, and leaves the door open, allowing the light from the hall lavatory to gift him sight._

_The child sleeps. She is all of two years old, but is yet to be named. The butler brushes a few strands of peculiar red hair from her brow, studying the soft lines of her face and the peace with which she sleeps, not knowing at all the fate they had just saved her from._

_She coos in her sleep when his touch strays too far down her cheek, and the rabbit jerks back, worried he’d woken her. But she simply hums and snuggles her face deeper into the sheets._

_Herriman sighs. Defeated. Succumbed. He kneels next to the bed. “You have my word,” he whispers. “You will never be alone… Miss Frances.”_

_Quietly, he leaves the way he came._

_The following morning, he would wake to the sound of infant laughter and slightly maniacal cackling ringing through the halls, and Herriman would venture downstairs to the kitchen to find his charges making a complete and utter mess of breakfast._

_He stands in the doorway for a few treacherous minutes, making mental notes of all the wonderful spills and crumbs he would have to clean, before the Madame waves him over._

_“Frankie,” she says, “ this is Mister Herriman, our butler.”_

_He didn’t have time to ponder at the ridiculousness of the name; the girl was staring at him, with eyes so wide and full of wonder… he’s only ever seen those eyes once before in his existence._

_“Hello, Miss,” he fumbles, because he’s no idea what else to say. “Welcome to the Foster Manor.”_

_The child stares a second more before squealing, “bunny!” and in the same breath giggles runs off after a yellow broom that made the mistake of sweeping too close to them._

_Herriman watches her race out of the kitchen. “Is that hers?”_

_“No, dear.”_

_A crash sounds from the hall. Herriman’s mustache flips in irritation. “Should I not…”_

_“She’s fine, Herriman,” Lady Foster waves. “I quite like the name, though.”_

_His left ear twitches. “Beg pardon?”_

_“Frances.” And it occurs to him exactly where he was last night, and precisely what was said. He hadn’t noticed at the time that he had spoken a name. Lady Foster chuckles at his speechlessness. “I figured it was an accident when I heard it, but. Ah. I think it fits her.”_

_Herriman cannot bring himself to be vexed about having been spied on. He sighs, something heavy and mournful breaking over him. “Madame…” he pleads._

_“Hush, now, Herriman. That day is a ways off. Focus on the Manor, and on Frankie. And the twelve kinds of breakfast foods staining my floor.”_

_Herriman sighs again, but it turns into a small laugh. As he goes to retrieve a wash cloth, he reminds himself of his purpose. That this was not a plan for an end, but the preparation for a beginning._

And what a beautiful beginning it turned out to be.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue how Alzheimer's or dementia really works. My great grandmother has Alzheimer's really bad but she lives in Mississippi and I live in New York, and I've only ever been down to spend time with her a few times. If this is inaccurate... then my bad.
> 
> But as always, thank you for reading. And keep your eyes up,  
Guardians...


End file.
